


Rule Breaker

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, romano is kind of really gullible, spain is kind of a jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17942.html?thread=58186262#t58186262">From the kink meme</a>. What Romano doesn't know might drive him crazy. At least, that's what Spain is aiming for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule Breaker

Over the years, Spain and Romano created unspoken rules to define their relationship. More precisely, Romano created unspoken rules and eventually Spain, mouse in a seldom forgiving maze, discovered what those rules were. Most of them are confusing and Spain barely has the time or the will to follow them, but there are a few, scattered here and there, that are worth it to know.

For instance, even though Spain knows Romano can understand him perfectly well no matter which of their languages he speaks, he still knows better than to speak anything but Italian in Romano’s house. A southern accent is best, naturally, and when Spain can hold onto it for an entire visit, Romano smiles. He smiles _at_ Spain, not through him, and it’s a victory worth every word.

Rule Number Eight: Speak Italian while at Romano’s house.

Rule Number Eighteen: If Romano pays for dinner then Spain better damn well pay for everything else.

Rule Number One: Whoever owns the bed makes the decisions in it.

For every rule there is a different punishment, and a different reward, but Spain barely has the time or the will to discern which reinforcement is supposed to be positive and which negative. Not with Romano’s mouth where it is. Not with Romano’s left hand massaging Spain’s crotch through his slipping boxers. It’s hard to think with his back arching off the bed and his face pressing into dark red sheets, such a high thread count he’s glad to see Romano is still living well, but Spain manages.

He manages: but not how Romano wants him to.

“What the _fuck_ did you just say?”

Because Spain barely has the will to follow Romano’s rules.

“I said, _ahhh_ –” Spain’s words are cut like Milanese fashion, are frozen with Torino snow, are practically _Venetian_ and Romano’s scowl intensifies even as he pulls back to begin preparing Spain. “I said _faster_. Or can you?”

Romano’s fingers begin to shake around the bottle of lubricant he’s holding. All he can see are the bright red shards of his most important rule falling around him, settling in the soft light of beeswax candles and the Sicilian breeze. Spain knows Romano’s been preparing for this night, he should know, how could he _not_ know with all the details Romano’s prepared in his bedroom? Does Spain honestly think Romano regularly lights fifty scented candles before he goes to sleep on wine-red luxury linens surrounded by rose petals? What the _fuck_ , how much time does Spain spend with France to make those things seem normal?

“Roma? Are you tired already?” Spain’s tuned his voice to perfect, radio-announcer Castilian. He can see Romano’s eyes begin to twitch, and Spain’s cock follows suit, excited despite Romano’s distinctly displeased expression, even if Romano’s hands have left to uncap the bottle.

“Shut up. This is my house.” And with that Romano abandons the bottle entirely, places it to the side and bends over to lick Spain’s skin, just above where cloth meets hip. His hand goes back to Spain’s not-an-erection-yet, which Spain’s do-that-with-your-thumb-again fully appreciates. His eyes close in concentration. Romano’s eyes spend a lot of time closed when they have sex at his house, in his bed. Spain doesn’t know why; he’s only noticed at all because of how frustrated he gets when he can’t look into Romano’s eyes in the thick heat of a Neapolitan night. In the determined slowness of a lazy Roman afternoon.

Because while Roma is sexy when he’s determined, Spain doesn’t quite want to be made love to tonight, long, slow, caringly, even though he’s heard Romano can be very good at it. Spain should know, he started the rumors himself back in that bar with France and Prussia and that lovely, lovely wine. But tonight Spain’s aching for some of the other rumors, the ones he can’t remember if he started or not.

Romano finishes removing Spain’s clothes while Spain remembers wine and lost nights. When Spain’s gasps become recited from memory, when it’s clear his mind has already started to wander, Romano clenches his fists before picking up the little bottle, ignored in the corner of the bed. Nothing like a few fingers up his ass to bring Spain back to reality, the bastard, and Romano doesn’t realize his composure’s slipped until after Spain starts laughing.

“R-roma, ha,” Spain _can_ help himself, but he won’t, because he likes laughing and because Romano’s finger speeds up with every low chuckle, “You should have warned me.”

Now he’s petulant. “I _did_.” And Spain could kiss him, except he’s lying on his side and Romano’s kneeling and he’d have to twist strangely to find any part of Roma to kiss at all. Not that that is going to stop him.

“What are you doing?” Romano ducks when Spain’s foot almost meets his face, and what is the clumsy moron even trying to do? “Get back _down_! This is my, my—” This is my night, I planned this, you should be moaning at my mercy by now, “ _this is my house_.”

Spain knows the code, he knows the rule, but he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. After a short, wet peck to Romano’s cheek he lies down again, against the red pillows Romano may-or-may-not have spent twenty minutes arranging. Spain is the picture of compliance. But the thousand words that describe him tell a different story and it’s _completely_ worth it to know Romano’s rules, even if Spain has no intention of following them.

Being almost kicked in the head before anything’s even happened sets Romano on edge, and he withdraws his finger, just the one, after a few more seconds. If Spain is ready for acrobatics, he’s ready to fuck, but no, no, it won’t be like that, he’s ready for Romano to show him to best sex he’s ever had. Romano unbuttons his shirt and tosses his clothes to the side, away from the candles. Tonight he’s going to set _Spain_ on fire, not his house, and Spain will be begging for more by the end of it. And maybe, if he’s feeling generous, Romano will indulge him. With that thought bolstering him, Romano begins to massage the inner sides of Spain’s thighs. He completely misses how Spain’s smile is less dreamy and more playful than the situation really calls for.

“Romano?”

Spain’s hard already, Romano’s glowing with pride inside, because he’s barely touched Spain yet.

“Roma?”

He’ll have Spain _screaming_ for more by the end.

And they say _Spain_ is the one who can’t focus. Or maybe Romano’s too focused… yes, that’s it: Romano’s too focused. He’s determined and focused, and maybe on some other night Spain would want that, but right now he wants it hard and fast and rough, right now Spain wants everything Romano has all at once. And he’s going to have to help a little in order to get it, so help he does, by lifting his leg ( _this time staying clear of Romano’s face, it wouldn’t be nice to bruise it just yet_ ) and hooking it over Romano’s shoulder.

“Huh?”

Step one complete, Spain brings his other leg as far around Romano’s waist as he can manage it.

What’s the fucker doing now, he’s breaking Romano’s pace. “Stop being so pushy!” But the situation can be salvaged, they were going to end up here at some point anyway. At least Spain isn’t trying to shove his cock up anywhere it’s not his turn to shove, Romano’s grateful for that because if it happened, he’d have to kick Spain off the bed. And he just polished the floor. “J-just. Just relax, okay?”

Spain nods, and Romano’s confidence rushes with his blood down to his waiting erection. He feels a little guilty at only giving Spain the most cursory preparation, just one finger and a little bit of lube, but Romano’s lived with guilt for over a thousand years now. He knows how to ignore it when he wants to. He slips on the first, too eager, but on the second try he finds the right spot and begins to push in. Romano only remembers that this is supposed to be slow after he’s already halfway in, but Spain’s eyes are dilated and he’s already groaning, so Romano assumes he didn’t notice the mistake.

When Romano slows, when his right hand returns to rubbing little circles on Spain’s raised leg, Spain can almost cry. When Romano’s eyes press shut and he sets a deliberately slow, even pace, Spain breathes deep and begins breaking rules.

_Rule Number One: Whoever owns the bed makes the decisions in it._

It might be Romano’s bed, but Spain’s already decided to get things going faster. “You’ve really grown up, Roma.”

The reaction is everything Spain expected. Romano’s eyes open and widen and he blushes and he’s flustered and he begins to move his hips faster and faster, to chase away his embarrassment. “I told you to be quiet.” But Romano doesn’t really mean that, or if he does, that’s just another rule that Spain is going to break; he can’t help it.

The next thrust brushes just short of _paradise_ and Spain can’t stand purgatory for much longer. He makes a show of letting go of the bed sheets and grabbing his cock in one hand, partly because the lack of stimulation is driving him crazy, but more because Romano has quirks, no matter how much he denies it, and one of them is that Spain isn’t allowed to touch himself while Romano is fucking—is making sweet, _beautiful_ love to him, dammit! It’s a subsection to Rule Number One, and Spain makes sure to let his best, neediest cries slip out when his left thumb circles slowly over the tip of his erection.

Romano notices quickly and at once hardens even more and grabs Spain’s hand. “Don’t do that.” Romano’s extra fussy when he’s got his penis in Spain’s ass, which is odd, Spain thinks, because usually it’s the receiver who’s painted as fussy, but what does he know?

“Sorry, sorry,” Spain isn’t sorry, sorry at all, because Romano’s face is more than displeased now: his eyes are open, angry, challenging Spain to cross any more lines. Spain loves challenges. And even though Romano doesn’t know it, he accepts. “Roma, keep going.”

He does, but his pace is faster than before and he’s not just brushing heaven now, he’s knocking on the gate, pounding on it and Spain announces ( _“Mmmh!”_ ) every bang ( _“There!”_ ) like a herald ( _“God!”_ ).

Romano knows he’s skipped ahead, but it feels so fucking good, Spain’s clenching around him _so fucking_ tight that he doesn’t really give a shit. But he doesn’t want it to end, not this soon, and he sets a rhythm somewhere in-between where he started and where he is, and tries to ignore Spain’s voice. Every call has been going in one ear and straight down to Romano’s dick, collecting there with the blood and confidence, and Romano doesn’t want to let it go, not yet, why can’t Spain ever keep his stupid ( _sexy_ ) mouth shut?

“Romano…”

Spain, all hazy eyes and calloused skin, reaches up a hand, just one, to cradle Romano’s face and oh God, Romano will never say it but he loves it when Spain reaches out to him. During sex. Or whenever, but. But Spain is an idiot with motor skill deficiencies, because his hand shoots past Romano’s cheek, wobbles at Romano’s next downward thrust and definitely, solidly, lands on Romano’s head. And ruffles his hair. Spain isn’t trying to caress Romano’s cheek, oh no, the bastard is _ruffling Romano’s hair_ and what the hell is that even supposed to mean? “Stop it!” On reflex Romano takes his right hand away from Spain’s leg, in order to swat Spain’s stupid _stupid_ hair-ruffling hand away, don’t treat me like a child, I’m an entire half of an independent country now, who’s the one on his back, huh?!

Of course, without the support Spain’s leg presses heavily against Romano’s shoulder and now Romano’s getting angry, getting angrier, he’s already furious and he shouldn’t have set fire to those handcuffs France left in his bathroom the last time the pervert visited, because Spain _deserves_ them tonight. Screw long and slow, screw it, screw it and in order to screw it better, Romano grabs Spain’s arm just below the elbow and wrenches it away.

He grabs Spain’s heavy leg and pushes it forward, as far as he can, and who cares whether Spain’s flexible enough to take it? …Fine. Romano cares because this evening was supposed to show his skill and attentiveness and _finesse_ as a lover, but Spain looks fine at this new arrangement and Romano’s still angry.

Spain is euphoric.

The age card is a dirty trick to play, but it works and Spain’s only just begun. To. To… he doesn’t remember what he’s doing or what he wants to do, because both his legs are in the air now and Romano’s mouth is close, spilling obscenities, yes, but close. And the change of angles is just right and Romano’s cock gets more erect the angrier Romano gets, does he know about that, and Spain suddenly wouldn’t mind a little bit of the soft romance Romano is trying to achieve. He tilts forward as far as he is able to, and Romano meets him halfway. And Spain’s hands are curling in Romano’s hair and his toes are curling in the air and Romano is kissing him with every bit of love and frustration he has. Spain lets his hands drift down to Romano’s back, tries to get a better hold, anything closer when Romano switches a hand from Spain’s hip to his dick, and it’s almost perfect.

But not quite. Romano pulls his mouth away even though Spain knows he has plenty of breath left, and watches greedily as a slim thread of saliva slips back onto Spain’s lower lip. There’s something soft in Romano’s eyes, now, and Spain commits it to memory before he transforms it into something with much, much more fire.

“R-roma… I love you,” and Spain means it and Romano pauses completely, bright red, although that doesn’t mean much because he’s been flushed for the better part of half an hour. He bends down to gift Spain with another open-mouthed kiss… “Even though you lost really early this year.”

The kiss becomes a snarl in midair, and Spain knows Romano knows exactly what he meant when he pulls out and slams his dick, with all the force he has, four. Deep. Distinct. Times inside, and Spain can’t feel his fingers anymore because they’re clenched too tight, and fuck he wishes Roma could have pulled off a few more wins over the years, wishes Roma had won every time if it meant those thrusts will continue.

“I’ll fucking show you losing early you cocky little piece of…” Romano continues, but his words are punctuated by gasps and, Spain thinks, those bursts of air must be letting all of Roma’s steam escape; it looks like things will be wrapping up soon. Romano’s arms are wobbling. He’s biting his lip ( _when did he stop speaking?_ ), and even though the look in his eyes is still angry, it’s also tired.

Spain isn’t done. “Roma,” the thrusts are faster now, but shallower and no matter how much Spain tries to bring his hips up to meet them, it’s not enough, “You should wait until later to show me how to lose early.” He winks and smiles and starts breathing faster when Romano makes a show of pulling out again. But Spain isn’t rewarded in the same way, and for a terrible second he loses all contact with Romano entirely, because Romano shifts back onto his heels and then kneels and Spain is afraid he is going to run.

Romano doesn’t run.

He _lunges_ , and for one interesting moment there are two soft hands around Spain’s throat, threatening to choke him, but that ends quickly when Romano tips them off the bed. “Fuck!” Spain stops himself from laughing this time. “Fuck, fuck _fuck_ ,” Romano seems close to crying and Spain wonders whether he should hop back up onto the bed and pretend nothing happened, or if he should stay right there on the floor and pretend nothing happened and kiss Romano until they’re both spent.

But Spain thinks that maybe Romano’s tears are more fury than despair. If he’s wrong he’ll make it up to Roma ten thousand times over. But if he’s right…“If you’re tired I can take over.” Romano freezes when Spain rubs his lower back in mock comfort. “Does Boss need to finish up here?”

It takes three seconds, just three, for Romano to stand, to haul Spain up from the ground and to slam him against the nearest wall. Two more seconds have Spain balancing on one foot, his other leg wrapped firmly around Romano’s middle. Romano’s hand and cock settle back into their previous positions, but at an accelerated pace and Spain can only keep himself from falling over and try not to hit his head against the plaster too hard, because they’re standing next to a shelf with three lit candles. Although. The hot wax is tempting…

“I am going,” Romano’s voice is hoarse and Spain is sorry, “to fuck you until you can’t remember what talking _is_.”

Spain isn’t really sorry at all when Romano draws out and flips him to face the wall, which doesn’t have enough handholds so after scrabbling at it with his bare hands for a few seconds, Spain begins to hit it with his fists ( _ **THUMP**_ ) in time with Romano’s dick inside of him. If either of them is making noise Spain can’t tell through the buzzing in his brain and the thumping of his fists, and when Romano’s hand returns to Spain’s erection one last time he can’t hold out any longer. Roma’s fingers massage it from base to tip teasingly light and then firmer and faster and Spain’s pounding follows suit until the shelf next to them wobbles and two dark red candles spill down all over Spain and Romano’s legs and Romano breathes a harsh “ _fuck_ ” in Spain’s ear but by now he’s a little distracted and everything’s firm, fast and hot and Spain comes against the wall while red wax cools against his thigh.

Romano doesn’t move for another few seconds, and even though Spain’s orgasm is past its peak and beginning to ebb, he pushes back against Romano’s chest and clenches against Romano’s cock with everything he has until Roma is a dead weight leaning against Spain and they both tumble to the floor.

There is semen on his wall.

The first coherent thought Romano has is about Spain’s semen on his wall, not about his broken shelf or the body prone and panting tangled next to him.

Spain’s first coherent thought is much simpler, and involves making it back up to the bed so he can enjoy his afterglow. He’s been breaking rules all night, so one more won’t hurt, and he stands on shaky legs and picks Romano up bridal style. Three steps later his knees hit the edge of Romano’s mattress, and Spain lets himself fall crookedly onto the bed, Romano still in his arms.

They lie there, still, until Romano tries to awkwardly shift away from Spain’s grasp. “I…” Romano doesn’t have room for complicated things like thoughts in his head. “I showed you.”

Spain shoves the messy sheets aside and curls into Romano instead. He’s done well tonight, but one more victory can’t hurt and Spain always likes a good thorough win. “Mmm,” he sneaks his head under Romano’s chin and sneaks an arm around Romano’s chest. “You did.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I actually did this. Moving on from that... next goal is writing pr0nz in the past tense, because I have yet to do that. This was supposed to be past tense, and about a fifth of it was written that way originally, but I decided that it didn't flow right like that. So ~20% of this fic had to be translated to the present. I don't think I left any stray 'was's in.
> 
> four times: Italy's won the world cup four times. Spain has won once. Romano would like everyone to keep that in mind.


End file.
